


The Nightingale

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fanfiction, Female Character of Color, First Time, Minor Character Death, Music, Operas, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brought together for an avant-garde performance of Stravinsky’s opera <em>The Nightingale</em>, rising divas Teyla Emmagan and Kate Heightmeyer deepen their friendship. But the opera is beset by disasters—will they even reach opening night, so that Teyla can sing the part she was born to perform?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FalconHorus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHorus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525406) by [FalconHorus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHorus/pseuds/FalconHorus). 



> Written for the 2016 SGA-Reversebang challenge, for the lovely artwork by Falcon_Horus.  
> An operatic AU, set when they’re both about 30. This is an Earth-based, non-sci-fi, non-stargate AU which gives the back-story for my earlier artwork [Duet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113481).  
> Note that there's a secondary John/Rodney pairing, but in the background. The main pairing is Teyla/Kate.  
> Big thanks to Persiflager for beta-reading.

 

 

~o~o~o~

“Teyla!” Kate opened her arms dramatically and drew Teyla into a hug.

Teyla laughed, half smothered by Kate’s luxuriant feather-trimmed dressing gown. “It is wonderful to see you as well, Kate.” She let Kate usher her into the apartment, looking around approvingly. “This is very nice. You have been here a month?”

“Yes, almost. McKay needed me here while he reworked the Empress’s part.” Kate rolled her eyes. “Stravinsky wrote it for an Emperor, you know, for a bass voice.”

Teyla nodded, setting down her small suitcase. “It is not easy to rearrange a whole opera around your contralto, lovely though your voice is.”

“Flatterer.” Kate grinned. “You should hear McKay going on about it. He vacillates between being terrified the critics are going to flay him alive for making free with Stravinsky’s genius, and thinking the arrangement’s the pinnacle of his career.”

Teyla pulled off her gloves, shrugging. “I used to believe the masters and their works were sacred, but no more. All that matters, in the end, is the music. If the end result is good, it is of no significance whether it is an ancient work or a modernization.”

“Oh, it has been too long, darling,” Kate said. “I’ve missed your insights. When you’re away I am a mere interpreter.”

“ _You_ have never been a mere anything,” Teyla said, with a sidelong smile. “ ‘The greatest new contralto of our times’—I have seen the reviews.” She walked to the windows, staring out across the Pacific. “A lovely view. Very calming.”

“Tea?”

Teyla saw that one end of the living room was a compact kitchen. Kate was opening cupboards and getting out two mugs. “Yes, please. Do you have–”

“Red Bush tea? Of course. I always keep it in case you show up. _I_ am going to have a nice English Breakfast blend.”

Teyla smiled. “The Red Bush is an acquired taste, but for me, it’s the taste of childhood.”

“You’ve never told me much about Athos,” Kate said, cocking her head.

Teyla shrugged. “It is not always easy for me to talk about it. I was only five when my mother died.”

“I’m sorry,” Kate said, pausing. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s fine; I barely remember her now,” Teyla said, still staring out the window. “My father raised me, and Charin, my maternal grandmother.” She turned and smiled at Kate. “Charin was the one who loved Red Bush tea.”

“Coming right up,” Kate said.

They installed themselves on the sofa’s broad cream cushions – all the apartment’s décor was modern, with spare, clean lines. In her own house back in Toronto, Teyla preferred Athosian rugs and rich hangings, with throw pillows and scented candles when she meditated. Kate liked things light and airy, so this place, which was not unlike Kate’s home in San Francisco, suited her well. 

Kate sipped her tea. “I saw your reviews for _Madama Butterfly_ , Teyla. I wish I could have been there but the Wagner festival clashed, like I emailed. Butterfly really is a perfect part for your voice. They said your _Un Bel Di_ was ‘unforgettable’.” Kate’s eyes twinkled—she knew Teyla found praise difficult and had told her many times that it was her job to rid Teyla of this foible. With a grin, Kate took pity on her and moved on. “Was the flight bearable?”

Teyla shrugged. “Yes, but too dry, as always, even though I drank a great deal of water. My voice won’t be right until tomorrow. But at least no one near me had a head cold.”

Kate nodded. “Well, but you wore your mask, right?”

Teyla bit her lip, knowing she looked guilty. “It makes me feel like an alien, Kate. People stare.”

“That’s why we pay for first class, darling! You should really use a humidifier, like I do. It stops your throat drying out, and best of all, it stops people talking to you and asking stupid questions about what instrument you play. As soon as they find out you’re a singer they think they know all about it, just because they sing in the shower and saw some dumb old opera movie back in the day.”

Teyla smiled. “It can be annoying, yes, but I quite like talking to people. And the humidifier would make me feel far too self-conscious.”

“You’re not ruthless enough, Teyla. A few more years, like me, and you’ll take no notice of what people think. God, we haven’t seen each other for far too long—not since we did _Roméo et Juliette_ back in Montreal.” Kate sighed happily. “I’m so looking forward to doing _Nightingale_ with you. You’re going to be great in the part.”

“Well,” demurred Teyla. “There are many fine coloraturas Elizabeth and Rodney could have chosen. I was lucky to get the part.”

“Oh, nonsense. No one’s got your purity and range. No one alive, anyway.”

Teyla looked down, smiling. “Speaking of singers,” Teyla said, “What about the others? Have you met them yet?”

“Yes, briefly, but I know several of them. Marshall Sumner—he’s playing the Fisherman—was kind of a mentor to me when I was young and very wet behind the ears. He does the Wagner circuit as well.”

Teyla raised a brow. “I have heard he is . . . difficult. A stickler.”

“He’s not as bad as people make out. He’s a bit of a traditionalist, but he’s very professional. Not a barrel of laughs, I guess, so if any of the younger ones get on his nerves he swats them down. He’s fine if you show him some respect.”

Teyla bowed her head. “I will be on my best behaviour.”

“Oh darling, you’re _always_ impeccably behaved. He’ll be stiff and formal at first, but it’ll be okay, you’ll see. Who else? Well a number of them are newcomers, so you won’t have heard of them, but there’s Woolsey as the Chamberlain, and Halling’s playing Death.” Kate nodded. “Yes I know—usually a female part, but McKay’s rewritten it all and he said he needed another male voice what with me singing the Empress.” Kate collected their cups and took them to the kitchen, rinsing them out. She came back and curled up on the sofa again, a little closer, with her feet tucked up. “Oh, and you might have met Sam Carter—she’s playing the cook. A soprano of course. Better to have someone a little older in that role, and she’s nicely . . . _buxom_.”

Kate made a gesture outlining full breasts, and Teyla smiled, shaking her head. “You know full well it’s lung capacity not breast size that matters. You’re teasing me.”

“Warning you off, darling.” Kate grinned. “I get territorial when there’s another Wagnerian blonde in your vicinity.”

Teyla rolled her eyes, blushing. “ _Kate_ . . .”

“It’s okay—I’m not making a pass,” Kate said. She smiled again. “Yet. We’ve got a few weeks to get through, with rehearsals and then the performances, so no promises.”

Later, lying in bed in the apartment’s spare room, Teyla thought about Kate’s teasing. They’d always gotten on well, always joked and bantered, but the flirtation was new. Did she want that? She’d had male and female lovers before, but not many; too dedicated to her career, to the music. She found Kate attractive, liked the sparkle in her eyes, her confidence and her warm heart. Perhaps, if Kate was serious . . . but Kate was rarely serious about her lovers.

Teyla put it out of her mind and rolled over, mentally running through the Nightingale’s first aria, seeing the shape of the notes, the twining of the music like woven threads in a rug, blues and greens, with some gold and a little jagged black. Synesthesia. It was not so rare and she knew some composers had had it—Liszt, and Sibelius to name but two. She’d never met another professional singer who described it, though.

For Teyla, music had always been a tapestry, literally as well as metaphorically. She let it spin her to sleep, cradled in a web of color.

~o~o~o~

“Welcome, everyone,” Elizabeth Weir said, smiling around at the cast who were seated in a circle of chairs. “You’ve all had a chance to familiarize yourselves with your scores, and before we move on to the rehearsal itself, I want to run through the plot and dramatization.”

Teyla glanced around the circle. Kate had introduced her to those she did not know and she had greeted those with whom she was acquainted, but Kate was the only friend among them. Rodney McKay, the musical director, was tapping his fingers restlessly, whether to some inner rhythm or from boredom, Teyla could not tell. The dark-haired man beside him, John Sheppard, would play one of the Emissaries and was alternate for Sumner’s role as the Fisherman. As she watched, he put his hand on McKay’s arm, calming his fidgeting. Richard Woolsey, playing the Chamberlain, Teyla knew slightly. He would do very well in that role, she thought, his bald pate lending gravity.

“The opera’s libretto is of course based on the Hans Christian Andersen tale,” Elizabeth Weir continued, “and I wanted to mention some of the themes. As in many moral fables, the Nightingale is something rare and wonderful which looks unprepossessing—she’s described as ‘small and gray’.” Here Elizabeth looked apologetically at Teyla, who gave her a pleasant smile in return to show she knew how those of small stature were often underestimated. Elizabeth could not know that this struck close to the bone for Teyla, who had had to fight for recognition of her voice and dramatic presence in the early days of her career, often being overlooked for taller, more statuesque singers.

“The Nightingale’s song is sought-after,” Elizabeth said, “but she is underestimated by the court of the Emperor—or in our case, of the Empress. So on one hand we have the beauty of the natural world, and on the other, the artificial values and snobbery of the court—that’s one theme. This is emphasized by the Nightingale’s refusal to pander to the Emperor—I’m just going to call her the Empress from now on,” Elizabeth said, smiling at Kate, who nodded. “She says she sings best in the forest, and when the Empress and her court are entranced by the mechanical nightingale brought by the Emissaries, the real bird flies off. This of course enrages the Empress, who is used to being kowtowed to—in every sense,” Elizabeth said, spreading her hands. A few people smiled.

“One thing to note,” Elizabeth continued, warming to her exposition, “is that the Nightingale never lies or flatters, so as well as representing natural beauty, she represents truth. And we can see that the mechanical bird is in many ways nothing _but_ a lie, being a facsimile. The court also prefers the mechanical bird as it can be made to sing the same song over and over, identically and on demand—so it can be controlled, which the Nightingale can’t. That’s another contrast. The Nightingale is unpredictable and wild, whereas the mechanical bird is reliable and owned as property—and the Empress wants to own and control everything of worth. Also, remember that Andersen was writing during the Industrial Revolution, so he was talking about how the infatuation with machines was causing devaluation of nature.”

McKay broke in. “We’ll show that by using a recording for the mechanical bird, of course, slightly distorted and with repetition of the same limited repertoire.” He nodded at Teyla. “We’ll record Ms. Emmagan’s voice, but flatten it so it sounds a little robot-like.”

“Yes, well,” Elizabeth said quickly. “That’s to be decided once we trial it. Perhaps not _too_ much distortion, Rodney.”

“Don’t want it to sound like a Dalek, buddy,” Sheppard said, with a grin. A few of the younger cast members laughed. Woolsey frowned in a puzzled manner and Sumner shot Sheppard an annoyed look, but said nothing.

“Oh, credit me with _some_ subtlety,” McKay protested, rolling his eyes at Sheppard in feigned exasperation. Teyla did not think he was in fact upset. She thought he and Sheppard enjoyed the teasing.

“We do, Rodney,” Elizabeth assured him. “Moving on—and I promise there’s not much more,” this last was said with a small smile for Sumner, who stared back impassively, “but I think a deeper grasp of the opera will help you all in your roles. Anyway, in the opera, time passes and the Empress is unwell, in fact she’s dying, so we have Halling appear, as Death.” Halling nodded gravely. He was very tall and thin, and Teyla thought he would be impressive in the role. “The mechanical bird has broken irrevocably, so is no comfort to the Empress—emphasizing the vulnerability and inevitable decay of all things, even the seemingly perfect mechanical nightingale. Then the true Nightingale returns, having heard the Empress is dying, and she defeats Death with her singing, and drives him and the shades of the Empress’s past deeds away.”

Elizabeth was caught up in the tale, her eyes shining. “And the Nightingale tells the Empress something which makes this the opera _about_ all opera. She says she does not need jewels in payment, as: ‘I brought tears to your eyes, the very first time I ever sang to you, and I shall never forget it. Those are the jewels which gladden the heart of a singer’.” Elizabeth beamed around at them all and a few of the cast nodded, but Teyla sensed most of them were humoring her; Sumner looked on the verge of rolling his eyes. A leader must inspire, though, even at the risk of over-emphasis, so Teyla remained politely attentive and made sure not to catch Kate’s eye. Kate had little patience with idealistic speeches and Teyla knew her eyes would be creased with suppressed mirth.

“So in the end, the Nightingale again represents compassion, purity and freedom. She says she will stay with the Empress—now fully recovered—and sing for her morning and night, but she will come and go to the forest as she pleases. And she says,” Elizabeth held up a finger and leaned forward, intent, “that she will tell the Empress all that’s happening in the kingdom, about rich and poor, the peasants and those suffering, because her position and the bureaucracy of the court keeps the Empress from knowing her people. Once again, the Nightingale represents truth and justice.”

There was a pause; it was hard to know what to say after all that. Then the tall bass, his hair all in dreadlocks—Kate had introduced him as Ronon Dex, one of the Emissaries—said “So’s that where that thing that people say comes from? ‘A little bird told me’?”

Sheppard snorted and looked down, trying to keep a straight face. McKay elbowed him, but Teyla saw that his own mouth was twitching.

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, surprised. She looked thoughtful. “I imagine it is, Ronon.”

“Or perhaps Ecclesiastes 10-20,” Halling intoned solemnly. “‘for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.’”

Elizabeth blinked. “Er, yes. It may be an older idea, as you say, Halling. Well,” she looked around the circle again. “Any other questions?”

“I have one, Dr. Weir.” It was Sumner, sitting back with his legs crossed at the ankle, eyeing her coolly. “Why an Empress? Why not stick to the original score and have an Emperor? It seems unnecessary and while I accept Dr. McKay’s a genius,”—this last with a deadpan delivery, yet he managed to convey that he thought no such thing, causing McKay to bristle—“it’s a risk, musically, and the critics are bound to give us a hard time.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sumner,” McKay said bitterly.

Sheppard put a hand on his shoulder, either in support, or to check McKay’s anger. “Look, Sumner, Rodney _is_ a genius. Wait ’til you hear what he’s done—everyone’ll love it.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I agree with John, Marshall. The new arrangement’s very interesting and complex. I don’t think we’re in any danger of the critics taking against it.”

Sumner raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, right.”

McKay’s mouth was an unhappy slant, his face pinched. “Just because you wanted the Emperor’s part, Sumner. Sour grapes getting the better of you?”

“I don’t have to take this,” Sumner snarled, standing abruptly. “Maybe I should walk, huh? Maybe you want an untried nobody as your Fisherman, Elizabeth.” He gestured contemptuously at Sheppard, who glared up at him. Teyla noticed that McKay now had a restraining hand on Sheppard’s arm.

“ _People, people, let’s all calm down and be civil_.” Elizabeth could be commanding when she chose. Teyla approved: a company of highly-strung artists needed a strong hand.

The babble of arguing voices subsided. Sumner reluctantly resumed his seat, ceding Elizabeth the floor. She frowned around at them all. “We’re _not_ doing a traditional production—you all know that. We’re not setting it in China, the Emissaries aren’t Japanese,”—she turned and beamed at a slight Asian woman Teyla knew to be the soprano Miko Kusanagi—“except for Miko.” Miko bowed politely. “And we’re modernizing the old gender roles as well, with a female lead in the position of power. The costumes won’t be specifically Asian, just exotic, as will the Empress’s city.”

“I’m thinking silver spires and towers,” put in a dark-haired man called Lorne, apparently the set designer. “Futuristic.”

“No fake black wigs?” Ronon Dex asked.

Elizabeth made a face. “Heavens, no. This is Stravinsky, not Gilbert and Sullivan. Your own hair is fine; we want diversity. The opera’s about artistic freedom, after all, and it ends on a strongly egalitarian note.”

“Still think it’s a mistake,” Sumner said, his mouth set.

Across from him, Kate chuckled, and Teyla glanced over at her. Kate was leaning back in her chair, her legs crossed, elegant in a form-fitting black sweater and slacks, adorned with several not very discreet gold rings and necklaces, matching her lovely hair. Teyla knew her outfit was worth a fortune, down to the sleek black Ferragamo boots. Kate smiled and made a dismissive gesture with one beautifully manicured hand. “Marshall, darling. I love you dearly but getting into a pissing contest with the rest of the company is a very bad idea. The Empress and the Nightingale are the two big roles here, and Teyla and I have top billing. If you want the opera to be a success so we all get our pay checks, you’re going to have to deal.”

Sumner glowered at her for a moment, then relaxed, shaking his head. “Modest as usual, Kate.”

“I learned from the best, Marshall,” Kate replied sweetly. “Besides, I’ve just done the _Götterdämmerung_ so I’m impervious to _sturm und drang_ right now.”

Elizabeth clapped her hands. “And on that note, I think we’ll take a break. Tea and coffee in the next room.”

“Coffee!” McKay was on his feet, dragging Sheppard after him toward the door. As they passed Sumner, Sheppard’s lip curled in a sidelong smirk.

“Shall we, darling?” Kate offered Teyla her arm, and they followed the others.

It was, Teyla reflected, no worse than many first rehearsals she’d endured, and better than some. She only hoped she could live up to her role and indeed bring tears to the audience’s eyes.

~o~o~o~

“Sure you won’t have wine?” Kate waved her own glass of chardonnay and looked back over her shoulder. She was stir-frying sizzling prawns in a wok, moving them about with a wooden spoon.

“I am happy with soda water. I’m still a little jet-lagged after the flight.” Teyla frowned down at the chopping board. “How should I cut up the pepper?”

“In strips is fine, thanks.”

“Cooking is not a skill I have ever mastered,” Teyla said, regarding the large red bell pepper mistrustfully. It had been a mission just removing the stalk and seeds. “Nor, to be truthful, ever really attempted. Thick strips or thin?”

“About as wide as your pinkie finger. Sure you can do it? Elizabeth would kill me if I let you injure yourself.”

“I will manage,” Teyla said grimly, dissecting the pepper with mathematical precision.

“So you never learned to cook?” Kate asked, stirring away.

“We had servants. Well, we had a housekeeper and a driver; they were more like family. Charin tried to teach me a little, but even she gave up after she tasted my attempt at soup.” She brought the board over to the cooktop. “Will this do?”

Kate leaned over and kissed Teyla on the cheek. “That’s perfect, thanks. Tip it in.”

Teyla did so, then stepped back, smiling shyly. “Concentrate on your cooking, or we will have a burned supper.”

“Yes, dear.” Kate added sliced onions and carrots from a covered bowl, a handful of bean sprouts, and a dash of sauce from each of three mysterious bottles on the counter with labels featuring bright colors and Chinese lettering.

Succulent-smelling steam arose and Teyla realized she was hungry. Very hungry. After the morning’s dramas, the _sitz_ rehearsal had gone fairly smoothly after they’d returned to the circle of chairs to sing their parts. Choreography and blocking would follow later and Elizabeth and Dr. McKay had focused on the ensemble sections, leaving several of Teyla’s longer arias for individual coaching. Teyla tried to imagine the busy pomp of the horns and gongs when the Nightingale was presented to the Empress and her court, letting her voice rise lyrically above it all, trills and arpeggios suggesting the fluttering of the bird she played.

The _sitz_ was not as physically demanding as later rehearsals, but the strain of pushing her not-quite recovered voice and of working with a new cast of singers had taken its toll, and she was very glad now to be relaxing back at Kate’s. McKay was exacting, inclined to roll his eyes and berate the singers when things did not go according to his demands, but Elizabeth modified his excesses and smoothed ruffled feelings. Teyla was not bothered by his outbursts, but then, he had seemed happy with her performance so she was not singled out for criticism. She appreciated his expertise, and found she liked Elizabeth’s English translation of the Russian libretto. The words flowed well, another aspect of Elizabeth’s vision for a more accessible and modern interpretation.

“Okay, ready. Chopsticks or a fork?” Kate asked, tipping the stir-fry onto steaming noodles in two white ceramic bowls.

“A fork. I am too hungry to battle with chopsticks,” Teyla said, licking her lips in anticipation.

Kate laughed, and brought over two forks and some paper napkins. They ate at a table beside the windows, looking out over the ocean. Dark, now, with a half-full moon casting a path across the water.

After several minutes of appreciative devotion to the food, Teyla sighed happily and paused to sip her drink. “This is very good. Is it a recipe your mother taught you?”

“No, my roommate, when I was a very new, very inexperienced chorus member. She was from Chinatown in San Francisco, second generation. My mother taught me the basics of cooking, but mostly Jewish recipes. _Matzoh_ ball soup and _latkes_ , _challah_ and _hamantaschen_.”

Teyla eyed her curiously. “I did not know that you were Jewish.”

“Mom was, so yes. I took it for granted when I was young, along with chicken soup when I was sick, watching Mom light the _shabbat_ candles, eating honeyed apples for _Rosh Hashanah_. She made me a special cake for my _bat mitzvah_ but I didn’t really have a party as we moved a lot. Mom was a violinist and she played with a few different orchestras—I never got to keep school friends very long.” Kate shrugged. “I’m not really the religious type and I haven’t practised since I left home.”

“Was your father Jewish as well?”

Kate’s face clouded. “No. He was Polish, from Chicago. Dad was a singer—a baritone. I got the music from them both, but he’s probably the one who gave me the voice. He left when I was three; walked out and we never saw him again.” Kate drank some wine, staring out at the dark ocean. “I don’t really remember him. Not real memories, just stories Mom told me, and then reading about him in newspapers and magazines, stories about the international opera circuit. I kept all the cuttings until I was thirteen.”

She laughed bitterly. “Mom and I had a fight about something, some teenage bullshit, and Mom said he’d never married her—Heightmeyer is her name, of course, not his—and that he’d been insanely jealous, over-fond of schnapps, and had beaten her more than once. She’d been glad to see the back of him.” Kate sighed. “I burned all my cuttings the next day.”

“You never saw him after that?” Teyla asked, her brow furrowed.

Kate shook her head. “He drank himself to death before I was twenty.” She looked up at Teyla. “So we’re mirror images, right? Me raised by my Mom, and you by your Dad. _L'chaim_.” She lifted her glass, clinked it against Teyla’s, and drank.

Teyla sipped her soda water thoughtfully. “It doesn’t bother you, singing Wagner?”

“What, because he wrote anti-Semitic crap and was lauded by Hitler? God, Teyla, if we picked and chose our roles according to the moral rectitude of the composers and their fans, we’d none of us make a penny.”

Teyla smiled. “True enough. Puccini and his infidelities, Stravinsky the Mussolini-loving monarchist.”

“Hey, a Jewish diva singing Wagner is the _best_ revenge. Adolf’d be turning in his grave.” Kate grinned. “And if being a monarchist led Stravinsky to write my Empress, I’m not grumbling.”

Teyla laughed, and reached across the table to squeeze Kate’s hand. Kate captured it and traced the lines in her palm, so that Teyla’s breath hitched. “Not,” Kate said softly, “that the Empress is an important part at all. It’s Nightingale who’s the star. You’re going to be brilliant.”

She raised Teyla’s hand and pressed a kiss to the cup of her palm, and Teyla shivered. “Kate,” she said helplessly, breathless and torn, unsure if she could master such a challenging role while this new thing unfurled.

“No pressure,” Kate said, her eyes fond and mischievous. “You’ve got a busy time ahead.”

Teyla squeezed Kate’s hand again, then gently withdrew her own. “Yes, indeed. And tomorrow, early, I have a coaching session with Dr. McKay, so I must say goodnight.”

Kate smiled. “Sweet dreams, darling.”

“Hopefully not about ancient geniuses and their many failings,” Teyla said, mock severely. “I will see you in the morning.”

She retreated to the safety of her room. If she had dreams, she did not remember them.

~o~o~o~

Breakfast was a little awkward, but by tacit agreement they kept things light—they were both professionals, used to setting aside mundane problems so as to perform. Kate was perhaps a little too fulsome in her chatter about the cast, and Teyla somewhat quieter than usual.

Teyla had assumed there would be time for something else after the show finished, but as she added honey to a mug of tea she checked her calendar and saw that after the last performance there were only two weeks before she had to fly to Milan for _Lucia di Lammermoor,_ and Kate had to be in Oxford for the Lieder festival. Teyla sighed inwardly—she could have wished for an easier role than Lucia after Nightingale. She drank her tea, frowning. No, it was impossible. She and Kate would be forever pulled apart as their careers took them across the globe to far-flung engagements. Better not to try.

A thought struck her, and she narrowed her eyes at Kate who was sipping an espresso, about to start on a soft-boiled egg. “These roles, Kate. You didn’t . . . did you? So we could perform together?”

Kate flushed, then looked across at her ruefully. “How else am I ever going to spend time with you, darling?” Perhaps seeing the consternation on Teyla’s face, Kate reached out a hand. “Oh no, not _your_ role. Elizabeth wanted you from the first—well, of _course_ she did. And she did want an Empress—she emailed me about the concept when she was planning the opera with McKay. I may have . . . offered my services at a bargain-basement rate, however.”

Kate gestured, dismissive. “Anyway, it’s a relatively easy part and I needed a break, after all that goddamn Wagner.” She picked up a knife and took the top off her boiled egg. “I’m not going to apologize for being a little Machiavellian; it’s lovely to have this time with you. I missed you, after _Roméo et Juliette.”_

“There is no need to apologize,” Teyla said, “but we are both so busy, and the work constantly draws us apart. I do not see how–”

“Let’s not worry about that now?” Kate was almost pleading. “After the show ends, then we’ll see . . .”

“Yes, very well,” Teyla said, deciding not to quibble. “After it ends.”

Kate’s shoulders relaxed. She beamed at Teyla and dipped a finger of toast into her egg.

~o~o~o~

“See, Stravinsky portrayed the mechanical bird instrumentally, but I think we can manage it better with modern technology.”

McKay had recorded Teyla singing the brief cadence of the mechanical nightingale and adjusted it with a voice synthesizer. He hit the playback button and they listened. It was like her natural voice, but flatter, with an electronic edge to it.

“Tiny bit of vibe, and a little pitch adjustment,” McKay explained. “What do you think?”

Elizabeth listened carefully, her head on one side. “It’s not bad, Rodney, but remember it’ll be repeated over and over, so it can’t be too grating for the audience to suffer through. Stravinsky used the instruments to create discordance for the fake bird, so can we–”

“Yes! Excellent idea.” McKay snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “I’ll take the initial recording and pitch-shift it a few times so it’s more like the instrumental version, then combine them. That way we’ll get the discordance back.”

“Teyla?” Elizabeth asked.

Teyla spread her hands. “I will be interested to hear it.”

There was a loud crash and angry voices erupted in a nearby room. “Dear God, what now?” Elizabeth muttered, as they went to investigate.

It looked as though Sumner and Sheppard, his alternate, had been practising the Fisherman’s part, but their scores were discarded on the floor and a music stand lay overturned. Sumner was glaring, red-faced. Sheppard leaned against the wall, jaw clenched, cradling one fist in the other. Beside him, the wall had a dent in it.

“Oh my God, you moron, what’ve you done to your hand?” McKay rushed over and forced Sheppard to let him see, his face dismayed as Sheppard reluctantly flexed his fingers, wincing.

“Yeah, lucky for you that your boyfriend’s the conductor and musical director, Sheppard,” Sumner sneered.

“What?” McKay glared at Sumner. “What in hell happened?” He peered up at Sheppard. “John?”

Sheppard shrugged and blew out a breath. “Sumner’s a dick, is all.”

“Gentlemen, we’ll have no name-calling. I expect you to behave professionally,” Elizabeth said sharply. As artistic director and executive producer she was basically the boss, so Sheppard and Sumner subsided, looking surly.

“But, but what did he say?” McKay asked Sheppard, eyes wide.

“Said he’d rather not work with me but he had no choice ’cause I was your . . .” Sheppard shook his head, teeth gritted. “Yeah, well. No name-calling, like Elizabeth said. _And_ he said everyone knew I couldn’t take direction.”

“He’s a loose cannon, Elizabeth,” Sumner said angrily. “Unreliable. He as good as threatened me.”

“Well, it sounds as though he may have had reason, Marshall,” Elizabeth snapped. “I have no tolerance for bigotry, so whatever your private feelings, you’ll keep them to yourself and be civil to other cast members. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, ma’am,” Sumner said sarcastically. He snatched up his script and stalked off.

Teyla saw that Dr. McKay was staring after Sumner, his face flushed, eyes narrowed. McKay turned back to Sheppard and touched his hand gently, manipulating the fingers while Sheppard grimaced. “You probably broke something, you idiot.” McKay looked across at Elizabeth. “He needs an X-Ray, but I have to work with Teyla now on the–”

Elizabeth nodded. “Aiden Ford can take him. He’s alternate for Third Emissary so they can practice in the car.” She left to locate Ford, who was helping Lorne with set-painting in an old warehouse adjoining the venue.

McKay was a little distracted during Teyla’s practice session, and she felt he did not push her as hard as he had done before.

“Are you all right, Dr. McKay?” she asked, when they were in a break, Teyla drinking water.

McKay looked up from the piano. “Call me Rodney, please.” She nodded, smiling. He waved a hand. “It’s just . . . disappointing. I mean, I’d expect homophobia in, I don’t know, the _military_ or something, but we’re artists. We should be above all that.”

“I agree,” Teyla said, “and I am sorry that you and Mr. Sheppard were singled out.”

“Oh, call him John. He doesn’t exactly stand on ceremony. Unlike some people I could name.”

Teyla thought she would wait until Sheppard himself asked her to address him familiarly. She sighed. “What Mr. Sumner said was inappropriate and unkind. But he is an older performer, and he may feel threatened by John, who is new, and in the midst of his career. John has a great deal of charisma and charm, after all.”

“Hey, now, keep your mitts off him—he’s mine!” Rodney said, mock-incensed, although Teyla sensed some anxiety under the bluster.

“I am well aware of that, Rodney.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Now, shall we try it again from the second section?”

He turned to the keyboard and played the introductory chords, and she added the soaring trills of the Nightingale in flight.

When they had finished practicing her arias, Teyla went to find the bathrooms, too much tea having taken its toll. In the foyer, she observed Marshall Sumner making his way out of the building. She frowned after him, concerned. He was moving slowly as if exhausted, and looked somehow older, deep lines engraved on his face.

“Mr. Sumn–” she tried, but he waved her off irritably and got into a waiting cab. Teyla looked after him, troubled. It was as well that he had decided to leave early; perhaps a night’s sleep would restore him.

~o~o~o~

This, however, did not prove to be the case, as when they gathered the next morning for another ensemble rehearsal, planning to walk through the blocking, Marshall Sumner did not appear. Elizabeth phoned his rented accommodation, but there was no answer.

“I don’t want to hold everyone up,” Elizabeth said, “but we can’t get the first section squared away without the Fisherman—his introduction to the Nightingale’s initial appearance is crucial, and we need to block his moves out, and Teyla’s.”

“Look, let’s do the start of the Empress’s Court part, which doesn’t require either of them,” McKay—Rodney—suggested. “John can go over to Sumner’s and get him out of bed.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise, after yesterday,” Elizabeth said doubtfully.

“I’ll go as well,” Aiden Ford offered. “We can take my car.”

“Yeah, kind of hard for me to drive, like this,” Sheppard agreed, raising his thickly bandaged hand which had proved to be bruised, but not broken.

Elizabeth acquiesced to this plan, and the rest of the company began walking through the pomp and circumstance of the Court section, Woolsey featuring prominently as Chamberlain, with Bates, shaven-headed, alongside him as the Bonze, a kind of priest.

Half an hour later Elizabeth excused herself to take another call. She was absent for a long time and looked shaken on her return.

She clapped her hands and called everyone together. “I’m afraid that I have some shocking news. Marshall Sumner is dead.” There was a babble of cries, protests and questions, and a few of the cast who’d been on better terms with Sumner were visibly distressed. Teyla went immediately to Kate, who was staring at Elizabeth, stricken. She guided Kate to sit down, and sat beside her, stroking her back.

“Please, everyone!” Elizabeth called, quelling the noise. “We don’t have much information, but Aiden said it looks like a heart attack. The ambulance is there now, to . . . to take him . . .” she lost her way and Rodney was at her elbow immediately, getting her a chair. He snapped his fingers, calling for a glass of water and some tissues, and Ronon went to find these.

People resumed hushed, urgent conversations. Teyla saw that Bates was standing alone, looking lost, clenching and unclenching his fists. Finally he whirled and strode off. Woolsey and Samantha Carter were seated by Elizabeth, talking with her in low tones.

It was apparent that no more work could be achieved after such news, and when people had milled about for a while, talking and shaking their heads, Elizabeth rallied, thanking them all and canceling the day’s schedule. “We’ll resume where we left off, tomorrow,” she said, smiling tightly.

“With Sheppard as the Fisherman, presumably,” Kate muttered. “He’s going to have to pick Sumner’s role up immediately. The rehearsal schedule’s already so tight there’s no time for delays.”

“Yes, I assume so,” Teyla agreed, and ten minutes later Ford and Sheppard arrived back. Kate and Teyla went and joined the group around Elizabeth.

“Turns out he was on anti-angina medication,” Sheppard said. “The paramedics found it beside his bed. He must’ve had a heart condition.”

Teyla remembered how ill and gray Sumner had looked leaving the venue the day before. She had been right to be concerned for him, but how could she have known? It seemed he had not told anyone.

Sheppard turned away abruptly, biting his lip. “Jeez, I wish I’d had some idea. I feel like I killed him now, with that stupid spat we had yesterday. Probably put his blood pressure up.”

“Hey, you couldn’t have known,” Rodney protested, reaching out to Sheppard but not quite touching. “He obviously didn’t want anyone to know.”

“No,” Elizabeth said heavily. “He didn’t declare it as a pre-existing condition on the contract he signed.” She saw Teyla’s questioning look and explained. “Insurance cover for the duration of the opera. You signed one too.” Teyla nodded, remembering a sheaf of papers.

“Guess he knew that if he declared a serious heart problem he wouldn’t have got the part,” Rodney said, a little bitterly. John sat back in his chair, his expression closed, arms folded.

Elizabeth looked unhappy, but didn’t disagree. “It’s a cruel industry to grow old in,” she said quietly, “but with funding so difficult these days, we have no choice. The sponsors won’t tolerate delays.”

“Yes, yes, delays cost money,” Rodney snapped. He turned to Sheppard. “Can you do it?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard replied. “I’ll have to, right? Just,” he waved a frustrated hand. “I didn’t want to get the part like _this_.”

“Oh, but,” Elizabeth said, leaning forward, “no one blames you, John, how could they?”

“Sumner’s cronies aren’t going to be too happy,” Sheppard said, pulling a face. “Bates, for one.”

Rodney snorted. “Bates is a–”

“ _Rodney_ ,” Elizabeth said warningly, and he subsided. “So,” Elizabeth continued. “John will sing the Fisherman, and Aiden will step into the Third Emissary role.” Aiden nodded.

“You’ll be short-handed on the production team,” Rodney said, looking worried.

“I’ll manage,” Elizabeth said, but she looked tired. “Lorne will help.”

“We must all have some rest, and a chance to recuperate,” Teyla said, standing. There was no more to be done here and she was worried about Kate, who had been far too quiet.

“Come, Kate,” she said gently, helping her friend rise and taking her arm. “Let us go home.”

~o~o~o~

Kate picked at her dinner—microwaved lasagna Teyla had found in the freezer—and Teyla tried, unsuccessfully, to distract her with stories about the histrionics of a particular soprano known to them both, who she’d worked with in _Madama Butterfly_.

Abandoning the meal, they moved over to the living area, Kate slumping at the end of one of the couches, staring moodily out at the darkening sea. Teyla joined her, curling up at the other end of the couch. “Can you talk about it?” she asked quietly.

“Huh?” Kate looked across at her, then shrugged. “I’m being stupid, sorry. It’s not as though Marshall and I were close any more, although he did help me a lot when I first started. But we weren’t really friends, not these days . . .” she sighed and looked back out at the ocean. “It’s just . . . is this all there is, Teyla? No real home or family, or always so far away and cut off from anyone you’ve left behind, and finally a lonely, obscure death somewhere?” She shook her head, shivering.

“Well, but we don’t know Marshall Sumner was so alone,” Teyla tried, tentatively.

Kate shook her head. “He was divorced—his wife couldn’t take the constant traveling, he told me. There’s a son somewhere but Marshall didn’t see him that often and they were never close.” She turned to Teyla, her turquoise eyes bright with tears. “It’s the damned _life_. This career—it’s like a one-way trip. When you’re in the industry you have to put the work first: hours of practice, endless traveling, working so far away. We don’t get embroiled in it unless we’re misfits or loners, unless we don’t really have people to leave behind.”

“And unless we’re exceptionally talented,” Teyla added, one brow raised.

Kate smiled thinly and tilted her head, acknowledging the point. “Yeah, okay, too much with the self pity. But you know what I mean.”

Teyla got up and went to the kitchen area, pouring two glasses of wine from a bottle of Pinot Gris in the refrigerator and bringing the rest of the bottle back with her. She gave one glass to Kate and sat, sipping her own.

Kate shot her a look. “Figured we needed to get plastered to talk about it?”

“I thought some wine might relax us,” Teyla said imperturbably. “It has been a difficult day.”

Kate sighed. “I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. Maybe it doesn’t affect you the same way. I can be over-dramatic about things, I know.” She drank, then waved her glass, managing not to spill anything. “I’m a goddamn diva—it comes with the territory! I don’t know how you manage to stay so level-headed.”

“Thank you, I think,” Teyla said, giving Kate an amused look. “I am not unaffected. Touring and traveling does get very lonely.”

“It’s not even as though we’re going to die alone and be eaten by cats,” continued Kate, frowning at the dark windows. “Can’t keep a cat, not with all the moving about.”

“You would not want a cat,” Teyla rejoined calmly. “You are allergic to them.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Kate said, then she turned and narrowed her eyes at Teyla who was sipping wine innocently. “Okay, that was a joke. You’re sneaky with the jokes, I remember that.”

Teyla smiled at her, then on an impulse, she put down her wine and pulled the mohair shawl from the back of the couch, moving closer so as to lean against Kate, draping the shawl across them both. She rested her head on Kate’s shoulder.

“You remember when my father died?” Kate nodded, although Teyla remembered they hadn’t been close, back then. “I was already busy with the opera circuit and making a name for mys–”

Kate snorted. “You were a rising star, darling—all the directors wanted you.”

Teyla shrugged, under the shawl. “Yes, well. Anyway, I was of course overseas when my father died, back in Athos. I was in Vienna doing _The Magic Flute_ , and I had to fly down to Africa, a very long flight and despite the amenities of first class, I could not sleep.” Teyla settled more comfortably against Kate, who put an arm around her.

“It was sudden—a random carjacking by one of the gangs that prey on people there. As a politician he lived in a gated community, with a high wall and a security system, but he had a mistress in the old city—not a safe part of town—and he was driving himself home after visiting her, having given his security team the slip. I wasted a lot of time on that flight being angry with him for being unfaithful to my mother’s memory, and for being stupid and irresponsible. For abandoning me.” Teyla sighed. “Eventually, I realized that he was lonely without my mother and that his mistress tied him to the old neighborhood where Charin and his friends still lived. He didn’t want to be isolated in his grand house with guards and drivers, even if it was safer.” She blinked back tears, voice faltering “Especially . . . especially as I had abandoned him as well, for my career.”

“But that was what he wanted, Teyla,” Kate said softly, tightening her arm. “I know I only met him that one time, at your amazing debut in _Norma_ , but he was so proud of you. Anyone could see he was thrilled by your success. He loved you and wanted the best for you.”

Teyla bit her lip. “Yes, but . . . I was all he had, after he lost my mother. He’d put everything into my training, hiring voice coaches, tutors to teach me Italian and French—I told you, I think?” Kate nodded, their heads close, blonde and auburn hair entangled. “I knew he wanted me to have a glittering career and fulfil my potential, but still, it was very hard to leave him behind. And then to lose him like that . . .”

She paused and Kate rocked her, pulling Teyla’s head against her and stroking her hair. After a while, Teyla continued. “Charin organized the funeral in the traditional Athosian way.” She smiled. “She swept in not long after I arrived and started ordering them all about—the servants, the aides-de-camp, the political lackeys. This old, fierce woman from the wrong side of the tracks and they all gave way, cowed. She had presence.”

“I think you inherited just a little of that, darling,” Kate said, dry. “I’ve seen you cow a few directors in your time.”

“Well, perhaps,” Teyla allowed, with a smile. “I’m glad Charin forced them to hold his funeral in the old ways; the rituals helped me. The prayers to the ancestors, the incense and chanting. I sang the farewell for him myself.”

They were quiet for a time. “I don’t imagine Marshall’s funeral will be anything like that,” Kate said sadly. “His son’ll probably have him shipped off to wherever they came from initially, or something. It’s harder when there’s no proper ending.”

“We can still remember him,” Teyla said, “and knowing Elizabeth, she’ll put a memorial in the programme. It’s something, at least.”

Kate pushed off the shawl, standing and stretching with a yawn. She reached a hand down to Teyla. “Awkward for John, though, to be forever reminded of how he got the part.”

Teyla took Kate’s hand and let herself be helped up. Kate did not release her hand, taking it in both of hers. “I don’t know about you, but all this dwelling on loneliness and loss is getting to me. Come to bed?” Teyla felt herself frowning, and Kate shook her head, smiling sadly. “No, not that, not after today. Just to sleep. I don’t feel like being alone.”

Teyla nodded. “Yes, Kate. I would like that as well.”

In bed, close to sleep, with Kate curled in her arms, Teyla said softly. “The music is our answer.”

“What?” Kate asked drowsily.

“To loneliness and loss. The music is our weapon. It keeps us human.”

“Mmmm,” Kate murmured, but Teyla could tell she was barely awake.

She kissed the top of Kate’s head. “Sleep, now.”

~o~o~o~

Teyla winced as John Sheppard made an error in the section before her entrance as Nightingale. Should she ignore it and continue? She was saved by Dr. McKay’s intervention.

“John, you missed the glissando.”

Sheppard blew out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, can we take that again? I’ve almost got it.”

“I think everyone could do with a break,” Elizabeth said. “Twenty minutes. Get some coffee, stretch your legs.” People began chatting quietly, drifting toward the break room. Elizabeth had gone over to talk with Sheppard and Rodney McKay. Sheppard was looking down at his feet, nodding.

“They must be exhausted,” Kate said, taking Teyla’s arm. “I’ll bet John and Rodney stayed up half the night running John through the part.”

“Everyone looks a little tired,” Teyla agreed, letting Kate draw her toward the lure of hot beverages and a bathroom break. The cast were still shaken up and several people looked as though they had not slept well.

“Well, _I’m_ not tired,” Kate declared. “I had an extremely pleasant night. You see, I have this lovely new _comforter_ –”

“Kate,” Teyla said warningly, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Lovely and _soft_ ,” Kate said, ignoring her, “and so _warm_. Why, I–”

Teyla elbowed her in the side. “Ouch,” Kate protested, clutching her side dramatically. “Don’t damage the diva!”

“You are incorrigible and I refuse to talk to you anymore,” Teyla said. “I will get myself some tea.”

Kate raised an eyebrow suggestively then headed off to the bathroom. Teyla got a mug of herb tea and went over to where Sheppard was leaning against a wall, stirring a cup of coffee. Rodney was across the other side of the room waving his arms at a short man Teyla had not seen before. The newcomer had messy hair and glasses, and was listening to Rodney sceptically.

“That’s Radek Zelenka,” Sheppard said beside her. Teyla turned and smiled at him.

“He’s the orchestra leader. First violin. He and Rodney go way back.”

“Ah,” Teyla said, nodding. “It is a chamber orchestra?”

“Yep,” Sheppard said, drinking some coffee. It looked double-strength. “They’ve been practicing as well. I think they were due to join us today so we can start doing proper run-throughs. Rodney’ll be rearranging the rehearsal schedule with Radek.”

“Not an easy task, considering how tight the timetable was anyway,” Teyla agreed. The violinist, Zelenka, had his hands on his hips now and was arguing with Rodney.

“No choice. We have to open on time,” Sheppard said, shrugging. “Rodney and Radek’ll have to make it happen somehow.”

Teyla put her hand on his arm. “You will be fine, John. May I call you John?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sheppard—John—said, looking a little startled.

Teyla cocked her head, regarding him. “You are tired today, of course, but I am sure you almost have the role. It will all fall into place in the next few days of rehearsals, you will see. We will help—you are among friends here.”

The tips of his ears flushed pink. “Um, thanks . . . Teyla.” He looked down and scuffed his foot on the boards. “Look, I wanted to say what an honor it is . . . I mean I always wanted . . . hell, I’m no good at this. You know what I mean?” He gestured inarticulately.

“I believe I do,” Teyla said, smiling up at him. “And it is I who am honored. We make a good team, I think.”

He was better after the break, his voice surer. There were still a few errors, but he took them in his stride, repeating some parts at Rodney’s request, or pressing on where the slip was minor.

They broke for lunch, and by late afternoon were at the section where the Nightingale sang her song, driving away Death and the Empress’s past misdeeds and raising the Empress from her deathbed. Teyla enjoyed singing with Kate, and thought they sounded well together. She was caught up in the interweaving multi-coloured tapestry of the music and it was not until their duet ended that she noticed the rest of the cast gathered around, even Lorne and his helpers at the back near the doors, spellbound.

Applause broke out as the last note died away. Teyla looked around, startled, cheeks flushed with exertion and a little embarrassment. Kate was clapping as well. “Oh, stop it,” Teyla said. “I could not have sung so if you were not supporting me.” She turned to the others. “ _All_ of you,” she said firmly, smiling at them.

“I think that’s a good place to leave it for today,” Elizabeth said. “Rodney and I need some time to finalize the rescheduling, so we’ll see you all tomorrow bright and early for the first orchestral run-through.”

Teyla waited in the hallway while Kate went to find her coat. John and Rodney were talking outside the door to Elizabeth’s office, or rather, Rodney, as usual, was talking excitedly while John listened, nodding and making a brief comment here and there. They still looked tired, but John in particular seemed a lot more relaxed. He glanced around, saw Teyla and winked, then stopped Rodney’s chatter with a quick kiss, leaving Rodney spluttering but pleased.

They had just parted, Rodney closing the door to Elizabeth’s office behind him, when a tall woman strode in through the front door. She was an arresting sight, with very pale skin and long, metallic-red hair—either harsh hair color or a wig—a pale silky dress hanging off her rather bony hips, long fingerless gloves and glistening silver knee-boots. Teyla stared at her.

She marched up to John Sheppard, who instinctively edged away until his back met the wall, eyebrows almost up in his hair. “Who in hell–” he began.

“So hungry,” the woman almost hissed, running a long vermilion-painted fingernail down his jaw.

“What?” John said, wrinkling his brow. “Look, lady, I–”

“You’ll what, Sheppard? Bump me off too, like you did poor Marshall Sumner? You must have been sooo hungry for that part. How did you manage to get rid of him?”

The door to Elizabeth’s office opened and Rodney stuck his head out. “Hey, John, I’ll just be another–” He took in the scene in the hallway, and slammed the door wide open. “No no no, and _hell_ no! Get away from him, you bitch!” He lurched out of the office and inserted himself between John and the strange woman, glaring at her. “Get the fuck out of here, you, you _harpy_. Leave Sheppard al–”

“Ms. Keeper.” Elizabeth’s voice was cold. “What Dr. McKay says is correct—you’re not welcome on these premises. Please leave, or I’ll call the police to have you removed as a trespasser.”

“Dr. Weir, how charming,” The Keeper woman said, glancing across at her. “You know it’d be better to let me interview him, rather than allowing me to write something . . . without the full _facts_ of the matter.” She turned back to John. “Am I right that the police have questioned you? Are they treating it as a suspicious death?”

John’s eyes slid sideways to Elizabeth. He looked desperate.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rodney snarled, hauling John away toward the practice rooms by one arm. “Nothing you write ever contains the slightest _molecule_ of fact, you witch. You’re a vampire, sucking the life out of creativity everywhere. Call yourself a critic? You’re nothing but a dirty paparazzi w–”

“Rodney,” Elizabeth interjected. “Take John and get some coffee. I’ll deal with this . . . unwanted intrusion.”

“No, I’m leaving,” the woman sneered. “Obviously you’re all too browbeaten to speak the truth.” She turned back at the door, drawing herself up. “A warning, Dr. Weir. You can see _me_ off, but I can stir up many others. I can make a _great_ deal of trouble for you, and I intend to do precisely that.” She strode out the door.

“Who in the name of the gods was that?” Teyla asked, into the silence following the woman’s departure.

“That was Ruth Keeper,” Elizabeth said, looking grim. “She calls herself a critic and writes a scurrilous gossip column for one of the tabloids under the by-line ‘Culture Vulture’.”

“Culture, no, vulture, yes,” Rodney said grimly. “She’s big trouble.”

“I should have realized she’d get hold of the news about Marshall,” Elizabeth said, rubbing her temple as though staving off a headache. “She’s got a lot of connections at the Mayor’s office.” She sighed. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, but watch out for phone calls. She’s been known to try and hoax people into talking with her.”

“I’ll call Aiden and warn him,” Sheppard said.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Good idea. In fact, I’ll text everyone and let them know to be careful.”

It was unsettling, and Kate and Teyla were subdued in the cab back to Kate’s apartment, and through dinner. They watched some mindless television and filled in the time before bed, and when Kate took her hand, Teyla went with her, curling around Kate’s warmth in the master bedroom, to take whatever chaste comfort they could from each other.

~o~o~o~

The next period of rehearsals went better than might have been feared, with no further disasters dogging the production. This was just as well, performers being a superstitious lot, as there had been mutterings about the opera being cursed with bad luck, but these subsided as the show gained momentum and came together as a whole. It was still somewhat ragged and not yet fully realized, but the shape of the final opera could be seen, and it gave everyone heart.

Much of the set was complete and Lorne’s alien silver towers added a dreamlike quality to the background. They would be masked by a simple blue-green curtain at the start, when the Nightingale and the Fisherman sang in rural solitude. The choreography was being finalized, Teyla’s training in dance and eskrima put to full use as she flitted about the stage, leaping up the stacked crystalline shapes (stylized rocks) to perch at the top and trill the Nightingale’s songs.

Teyla was pleased with her costume, leotard leggings with a simple jerkin-top and a suggestion of fringed feathering down the back of each arm. As befitted the humble bird, it was gray-brown, and her feet were bare. It represented wildness, simplicity and the natural world, according to Elizabeth. Teyla thought it suited her, and it was comfortable, letting her move and dance.

Kate’s attire was a different matter. She would wear a form-fitting silver satin gown covered with metallic sequins, alien-looking chrome bracelets and earrings, and have her braided hair swept up in an intricate crown-like structure. On her deathbed, this concoction was let down so that her braids lay in disarray, and she wore black satin pajamas—transformed, after her resurrection, by the addition of a silver robe and a glittering turban. Teyla judged Kate to be happy with this—she’d always liked the drama and dress-up part of performing.

As the Fisherman, John wore jeans and a black t-shirt with a plaid flannel shirt open over it, while the Chamberlain, Bonze and Cook all had crisp dark-gray uniforms with triangular panels of color denoting their functions. Apparently there would be a guide in the programme explaining the meaning of the various color patches. The Emissaries wore stylized military uniforms and carried an empty gilded birdcage.

The orchestra now accompanied the singers in rehearsals, with extra practices before the cast gathered each morning. Several days had passed, and they were approaching the dress rehearsal, when Teyla and Kate arrived in the morning to find the cast gathered gloomily in clusters, passing around a newspaper. ‘Culture Vulture’—Ruth Keeper—had been suspiciously silent since her dramatic visit, but the threatened column had now appeared.

In it, she implied that John was to blame for Sumner’s death, hinting at professional jealousy without writing anything actionable. She slammed the modernization of a classic, and had found out about the Empress/Emperor swap and resulting musical changes. Her statement: “Dr. McKay has technical skill but no artistic depth, so will very likely botch the musical adaptation,” caused Rodney’s mouth to twist in a bitter slant, and John was tight-lipped and tense, pacing moodily. Teyla was dismissed as “untried and inadequate”, and Kate as “a mis-cast Brunhilde”. That day’s rehearsals were a struggle with everyone downcast and preoccupied. Elizabeth gave a pep-talk at lunchtime, but the afternoon still dragged.

In addition to these worries, Teyla was battling with the most difficult section of her arias. It was very high, very fast, and jaggedly discordant, and she had not quite mastered it, despite several individual sessions with Rodney. She could manage it more slowly, or manage it fast without the highest, most taxing run of notes, but she still faltered when attempting the whole. To Teyla, it felt like a rent in the tapestry, a flaw, and she hated it.

Elizabeth made Kate take her home to rest in the late afternoon, when it became apparent that straining for perfection—especially on this day with all its worries—was worsening her performance.

“It’ll come, darling.” Kate said in the cab, patting her arm. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard today, that’s all.”

Teyla pulled her arm away, refusing to be consoled. “Perhaps it is beyond me,” she said miserably.

“Don’t give that stupid vulture-woman any credence, Teyla. The woman’s a blood-sucker, out to cause trouble. We have to refuse to let her get to us.”

At Kate’s apartment, Teyla picked at some food then tried to take a nap, but was unable to stop worrying. She got up and made herself run through a set of eskrima exercises, knowing that she should meditate, but not feeling settled enough.

Kate watched her, leaning in the doorway to her bedroom. “Look, darling, I might be able to help.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not in the mood.” Teyla held the heaven-and-earth pose, staring out at the sunset, the sun’s last rays glowing on the horizon.

“No talking. Let me hypnotize you.”

Teyla turned, frowning. “What?”

“I had terrible performance anxiety when I was first starting. I tried a few things, and hypnosis worked best, so I learned some techniques. I can help you relax, and teach you how to use it in future.”

“I am too restless to meditate, though, so how–”

“This is different. But we can set up your room with some candles, for ambience.”

Kate got Teyla to lie back on the bed, sitting next to her and making her focus on deep breathing, then holding a candle up for Teyla to concentrate on. Kate’s voice was soothing, droning on, telling her to let it all go, to relax, that she was weightless, floating. When Teyla was deeply relaxed, Kate told her to bring the problem passage to mind, but this time perfect, as it should be. Teyla heard her own voice soaring, effortlessly managing the troublesome section, again and again, while Kate told her she could do this, had already done it, could do it any time she chose.

Afterward, Kate lay down with her as the last candles flickered. “I feel better, anyway,” Teyla said. “So thank you for that.”

Kate smiled at her, and Teyla smiled back, then she slid a hand into Kate’s hair, pulled her close, and kissed her. Kate’s lips were soft, and she smelled good—Kate always smelled good—and Teyla pushed Kate onto her back and held her there and smiled down at her, then kissed her some more.

“No waiting?” Kate breathed when they came up for air.

Teyla shook her head. “I don’t want to wait any more. We have so little time together.” She undid the buttons on Kate’s top.

Kate pulled Teyla down again and parted her lips, tasting her, taking her. Teyla kissed her throat, then slid down, pushing the thin fabric aside. Kate’s breasts were soft, except for her nipples, which swelled and stiffened when Teyla sucked on them. Kate moaned and arched up under her tongue, and got a hand down the back of Teyla’s pajamas, squeezing her ass. Teyla opened her legs and rubbed herself against Kate’s thigh, groaning.

She pulled off her own shirt and eased Kate’s pajama top yoff her arms, then knelt over her on all fours, kissing and sucking, exploring with lips and teeth. Kate writhed under her mouth and slid a hand down Teyla’s belly, cupping her mons and sliding a finger between her legs. Teyla dropped her head and panted, her hips moving helplessly as Kate’s finger slid against her, then pushed in. Teyla could feel how wet she was, hear the slick sounds they were making, and she shuddered.

Kate was wearing too many, too much, she had to . . . “Off, off,” Teyla gasped, pulling feebly at Kate’s pajama pants.

“You . . . too, oh . . . _oh_.” Kate’s voice was husky. Then Teyla was being rolled, lifting her hips as Kate dragged off her sweatpants and wriggled out of her own remaining clothing. It was almost too much, with Kate’s curves pressed against her, and she filled her hands with breasts and ass and kissed Kate until they were both gasping, breathing raggedly.

Being pressed down in the bed was exciting, and made her moan. Kate’s mouth on her breasts made her cry out, and then Kate’s hand was between Teyla’s legs again, stroking, teasing, pushing in. Teyla groaned and stiffened, coming hard around Kate’s clever fingers.

When she’d recovered she slid down between Kate’s parted thighs and used tongue and fingers both, until Kate’s moans and curses ran together incoherently and she arched up off the bed, shaking.

The last candle had guttered out, so they pulled up the covers and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

At the dress rehearsal the next day, Teyla did her deep breathing in the wings, visualized the difficult passage, and sang it perfectly. She messed up an easy section near the start, though, and John waggled his eyebrows at her, almost making her laugh before she recovered and sang her way out of trouble. He himself botched a later passage he’d been struggling with, Woolsey timed an entrance wrong and one of the gels fell out of a light and nearly brained Miko. In the orchestra, Radek broke a string and Stackhouse, the trombonist, knocked over a music stand.

“Well,” Elizabeth said brightly, having called them together afterward. “I think that went very well!”

“Clearly you adhere to the notion that a disastrous dress means a good first night,” Rodney said, frowning sceptically, his arms folded, chin raised.

Elizabeth patted his arm. “The music sounded wonderful,” she said.

At that moment Aiden Ford leaned against one of Lorne’s painted flats which, inadequately braced, toppled slowly back, crashing onto a stylized rock and ripping a three foot tear in the canvas.

“Gaffer tape and paint,” Lorne said. “Not to worry.”

Rodney humphed and rolled his eyes, then dragged John off to practice the section he’d flubbed.

Teyla and Kate went home and had celebratory orgasms.

~o~o~o~

“Buddy, budd _y_ , it’ll be okay. C’mon, _breathe!”_

Teyla saw that John was rubbing Rodney’s back, trying to calm him. The two men were in a small, dimly lit alcove off the dressing room hallway, away from the bustle of the main backstage area. Curtain rise was in thirty minutes.

“But the changes I had to make, John, they’re so extensive! The critics are going to have us for breakfast! Well, have _me_ for breakfast, anyway.”

Rodney was almost hyperventilating, and John caught Teyla’s eye as she hesitated in the hallway and made a face. “Hey, Teyla,” John said, a little desperately. “Tell Rodney the music’s fine.” He bent over Rodney again. “This is just opening night nerves, buddy, you’ll see.”

“Indeed, your arrangements are excellent, Rodney.” Teyla came closer and put a hand on Rodney’s arm. “You know that this opera is not considered one of Stravinsky's best—they have called it inconsistent, because he set the first part aside for so long before finishing the rest. In truth, you have improved it—you have balanced the stylistic problems with your excellent arrangements.”

“You think so?” Rodney stared at her, hopefully.

“I know so,” Teyla said firmly. “Come now, we must leave John to finish his make-up and prepare, and the orchestra needs your guidance. Will you accompany me upstairs?” She guided Rodney away, John mouthing _thanks!_ as he headed for his dressing room.

Once backstage, Rodney rapidly became embroiled in minor annoyances, and was soon back in full fig, tearing strips off his minions. Teyla left him to it and joined Lorne in the wings.

“Hey, Teyla.” Lorne nodded. “It’s a full house, anyway, so maybe old Culture Vulture did us a back-handed favor.”

“Any publicity is good publicity?”

He grinned. “You said it.”

“Let us hope that we can win over any who have come out tonight merely for scandal, then,” Teyla said, and Lorne smiled wryly. “Excuse me, I must meditate briefly before we start.”

She found a spare fake-rock cluster in a quiet corner and sat on it cross-legged, centering herself, breathing deeply and visualising the bright threads of her part woven through the tapestry of the opera. Then the orchestra began, and she took her place in the wings.

John made a minor mistake in his opening song, but did not seem thrown by it, pressing on in good voice, and although the rest of the cast occasionally missed a note or fudged the blocking, Teyla was barely aware of these imperfections as the opera unfolded, caught up as she was by the lovely complexity of the music. She was Nightingale, lyrical and soaring, her voice now plaintive, now soaring and fluttering as she sang for the Fisherman, for the Empress’s court, and for Kate herself, glorious and shimmering in her silver sheath.

Lorne gave her the thumbs up in her longest break as she rested and drank water while the Court, on stage, pompously banished her and lauded the artificial bird.

Then, as the Empress languished pale on her deathbed, Teyla resumed her song, seeing the vivid musical strands entwined, rising and falling as she possessed the stage, singing away the Empress’s past misdeeds and wielding her voice as she had promised Kate after they lost Sumner—the music their weapon against Death itself. Halling yielded, his long dark coat, black-etched face and white hair fading back into the shadows, and Kate revived to join her richer melodies with Teyla’s trilling song, once more the Empress, restored by the Nightingale’s gift.

As John sang them out, narrating the ending, Teyla clasped Kate’s hands in the wings. “You _see_?” she said, and Kate nodded, eyes brimming.

Waves of applause broke over them, and they bowed and bowed and there were flowers for Teyla and Kate, and for Elizabeth, even Rodney—delivered with a chaste kiss to his cheek by a roguish John—and as the curtain thudded shut for the final time, Teyla abandoned her bouquet and took Kate into her arms.

~o~o~o~

**Epilogue**

Kate clicked off the DVD player and stretched. She had a little arthritis these days and her back stiffened up after sitting for too long. Teyla had switched from eskrima to yoga herself, to cosset her aging joints.

Teyla ran a hand through Kate’s hair—still golden, thanks to Clairol’s ‘honey blonde’, Teyla herself favoring ‘cinnamon’. “What did you think?”

“Rodney’s going to be livid that they didn’t showcase all his arrangements,” Kate said, grinning at her. She was still lovely, the lines around her eyes only adding to her beauty. Of course, Teyla was biased.

“Yes, we will hear from him and John, depend upon it.” Teyla brushed a fair curl back from Kate’s face. “I liked the actresses they chose to play our parts. Of course, Claire Rankin was not quite as glorious as you in all your youth, but she and Rachel Luttrell did very creditable jobs, I thought.”

“Just as well,” Kate said. “When the movie company came to us and asked to do a biopic of our lives—well, really, of our relationship—I was pretty dubious. But . . . it’s good, I think. Did you like it?”

“I did like it. And I’m glad they based it around that staging of _Nightingale_. It was always my favorite.”

Teyla curled up against Kate, comfortable in their home perched high above the ocean, its colors ever shifting from blue to gray to green. It was not the same ocean as the one in the movie and they still did not have quite as much time together as she would have liked, but their careers were more measured now that they were thoroughly famous and could be choosy about which roles they accepted.

“Another poke in the eye for Death,” Kate said, sounding satisfied. She leaned over and took their wine glasses from the side-table, passing one to Teyla. “To the music, and to life,” she said.

Teyla smiled and clinked her glass against Kate’s. “ _L’chaim_.”

~o~o~o~

 

\- the end -

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the version I listened to while writing this. 
> 
> Natalie Dessay as The Nightingale (Le Rossignol), on youtube. 
> 
> [Le Rossignol](https://youtu.be/DIOYX7Y27qM)   
> 


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